


After the War

by will_o_whisper



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-23
Updated: 2010-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_o_whisper/pseuds/will_o_whisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have changed since the Blight ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the War

**Author's Note:**

> Post-game story, written for a fic exchange a while back.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated.

Zevran found Garth in the chapel—what passed for one in the ruins of Castle Cousland—as he knew would.  The room was empty, but for jagged piles of timber shoved away in corners, the altar against the back wall, and the man kneeling prostrate before it.  Candles threw dancing shadows on the walls; their light teased with Garth’s hair, pulling strands of copper from the brown.  The indiscernible murmur of Garth’s prayers hovered in the air.

With a silent step, perfected by years of use, Zevran slinked towards the praying man.  He rested his hands on Garth’s shoulders and leaned down to brush his lips against the other man’s ear.  “My handsome Grey Warden, it’s dangerous placing yourself in such an _inviting_ position,” he whispered, before dipping down to nip at Garth’s neck.

The murmur ceased.  Garth sat up, making a half-hearted effort to push Zevran off as he did.  “That,” he said, “is blasphemy in a house of worship.”

“Perhaps.  But I’ve always enjoyed a bit of blasphemy.”

In response Garth asked, “Did Fergus send you?”

“Sadly, I have not seen your brother since we arrived.  One would almost think he was hiding.” Zevran noted the change in conversation, of course—as subtle as a charging ogre, like many things about the other man—but made no comment.

“He doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“He does not know what to do with an elf, you mean.  A pity, as I can imagine a great many things to with him.” A smirk slipped across Zevran’s face as Garth turned on him, irritation flaring in his eyes.  Zevran waved aside his protests.  “We can discuss this in more intimate detail after you meet with your new recruits.”

As simple as that, Garth’s irritation flickered and died, replaced by something else Zevran recognized but could not identify.  It was an almost-sadness in the pursing of his lips, a not-quite-emptiness in his eyes.  It had always shown itself in the glow of the campfire, all those years ago, when Garth and Zevran kept watch together, and Garth spoke of his home, of Castle Cousland and Highever.  It had shown itself weeks ago, in the wavering torchlight of the Grey Warden’s base in Amaranthine, when Garth received Fergus’s invitation.  It showed itself now, in the flickering candlelight of an abandoned chapel, and Zevran was no closer to naming it.

“I see.” Resignation tinged Garth’s voice.  He rose, pausing only long enough for a short bow towards the altar before extinguishing the candles.

They left the chapel together and walked across the courtyard.  It was bitter cold outside, though the winter season had only just begun, yet Garth showed no sign of being bothered by the temperature.  Zevran almost hated him for.  Days like this—shivering despite layers upon layers of wool and fur, stamping his feet just to remind himself they were there—made Zevran ache for the dry heat of his native Antiva, even after three years since leaving her.  He thought, sometimes, of returning, perhaps with Garth, to show his Fereldan friend how delightful a country could be.  The thought crossed Zevran’s mind now, and as every time before, he buried it away.  There was no going back now, and Zevran had learned long ago the futility of entertaining impossible dreams.  Instead he turned to Garth, preparing a lewd comment about the sort Joining of _he_ would like to do with one of the newly arrived recruits (a plain faced young woman from the Bannorn with the shapeliest hips Zevran had ever seen).

He hesitated, however, when he realized Garth had stopped, seemingly, to examine doors to the main hall.

Garth pressed a hand to the wood, traced the whorls in it with his fingertips.  “I hadn’t noticed it was new.”  
“Quite a few things are, I would imagine.”

Garth laughed, a bark empty of humor, and withdrew his hand.  “True enough.  I suppose…so much of the castle was destroyed the night…and now you can barely tell.  Fergus has done an admirable job with repairs; it’s a shame we won’t be about to see them finished.”

“And why not?” A smile lit on Zevran’s lips—the sort of smile he wore when joking about things he was not joking about at all.  “Stay, and leave Warden business to the Orlesians.  No one will deny you that.”

A beat passed, then two, then too long.  Then Garth smiled, weakly, his first honest smile in weeks.  “Perhaps.  But what would I do when you got bored with life in a noble house and ran away?”  He brushed the back of Zevran’s hand with his own; surprised by the display of affection, Zevran’s caught the other man’s hand and squeezed it briefly before letting go.

“Ah, you underestimate the amusements that can be found among the noble class, and there are worse things to be than the courtesan of an attractive hero.  A demonstration, perhaps, if you need convincing?” Zevran laughed at the light blush that rose on Garth’s cheeks and offered a promising leer before opening the door and ushering Garth inside.

Five people stood huddled together at the far end of the room.  Four, two men and two women, Zevran recognized as those who had recently arrived, and the fifth, as Fergus Cousland.  At the creaking of the doors, Fergus looked up from the conversation he was having with the plain woman with the wonderful hips.  He smiled and hailed Garth; he made no effort to hide his frown when he noticed Zevran.  Zevran ducked his eyes and fell back from his step beside Garth.

“There you are!” Fergus threw an arm around Garth’s shoulders and pulled him into the group.  “I was just about to send for you.  Here, there are some people I would like you to meet.”

While Garth received his brother’s introductions with distant cordiality, Zevran glanced at the doors at either side of the room; there were two entrances besides the one they had come through.  He did not doubt he could slip out unnoticed, humans rarely noticed the comings and goings of elves, and while Castle Cousland was still woefully understaffed there were a few lovely elven ladies working in the kitchens whose acquaintance Zevran hadn’t yet had the pleasure to make.  If nothing else, the kitchens would be warmer.

And yet he stayed, hovering by the group.  Where there were maids there were no guards, save one sleepy fellow who stood by the main entrance; dispatching him would be humiliatingly simple.  Though Garth was far from helpless, Zevran found himself unwilling to let him alone and undefended, trusting safety to handful of soft nobles—even nobles supposedly worthy of being considered for the Grey Wardens.  This feeling had become familiar, though no less disconcerting, over the past three years.  More upsetting—not quite—was how easily Zevran found he bowed to it.  With each passing second the possibilities of the kitchen seemed less intriguing, while every shadow seemed to hide an assassin.  He waited.

As the conversation shifted from pleasantries to business Zevran realized he was being watched.  A young man, introduced as Ser Randall, had taken notice; he stared openly.  His brow furrowed and pulled at his lower lip with his teeth before he turned to Garth.  “My pardons for interrupting, Ser, but is it really proper to speak of such sensitive information in front of…?” Ser Randall spoke in a loud whisper and jerked his head in Zevran’s direction.

Confused, Garth looked over where Ser Randall had nodded.  His scowled when he saw Zevran, who raised his eyebrows.  This was not the first time Zevran had been mistaken for a servant or troublemaker or both, of course—Fergus had made the same assumptions when they’d first met—and in truth Zevran was used to it.  He chose to look for the humor:  how _shocked_ these humans would be to learn what roles Garth Cousland and his elf played behind closed doors!

It was easier, that way.

Zevran expected Garth would mumble a denial and move on, as he always did in such situations.

When Garth pulled himself to his full height, clenched his jaw in the way he only did when it was clear his orders were not to be defied, and said “You, none of you, will speak of your commander like that again,” well, it was surprising.

Ser Randall flinched and sputtered, alternately, expressions of disbelief and apologies.  All attention was on Garth now; he crossed his arm, seemingly passive if not for the increasing tension in his shoulders.  Another time Zevran would have intervened, somehow, maybe, had a movement not caught his eye. 

He was not so disoriented as not to notice how his plain-faced beauty reached down to pull at the hem of her dress.

It happened quickly.  Zevran drew the knife he kept concealed in his boot the same moment the woman pulled the dagger from the sheath strapped to her leg.  Someone screamed.  She lunged for Garth, slashed the arm he raised to defend himself before Zevran struck her across the back of the head with the hilt of his knife.  She stumbled, and Zevran struck her again.  She fell, striking the stone floor with a crack.

The guard barely had a chance to move. 

Shameful.

The tense bubble of silence that had settled over the room in the seconds it took for event to play out burst instantly.  People grabbed at each other, talking to and over one another in a rush of words that piled high and tumbled over themselves in a cacophony of panicked chatter.  The clank and clatter of the armored guard as he pounded up to them, concern and apologies spilling from his mouth, sounded over the pandemonium. 

In the confusion, Zevran stepped over to the would-be assassin.  He kicked her fallen weapon out of her reach before sitting on her legs and pinned her wrists with one hand; he kept his own weapon in the other.  He looked up at Garth.  Garth looked down at Fergus, who was bandaging his wound with a strip of cloth Fergus tore from his own tunic.  Blood soaked the sleeve of Garth’s shirt and dripped on the floor; the sight made Zevran twitch.  Looking back at Zevran, Garth smiled in reassurance (he’d had worse, they both knew) before indicating the frantic bunch behind them.

Message understood, Zevran glanced over his shoulder and snapped, “One of you, go find some rope.” The chatter paused.  “There should be some just outside, with all the construction.  Hurry, now.  Or would you prefer our lovely guest have a chance to redeem her failure?”  As though prompted, the woman groaned softly.

Eager, perhaps, to prove himself after his earlier indiscretion, Ser Randall jumped snapped to attention, and took off.  They awaited his return in silence, the nobles subdued for the time being.  No one moved much, excepting Fergus, who tied off his makeshift bandage, then placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

“You worry too much, Fergus.  I’m fine.” Garth made no effort to pull away.  Shifting slightly, he touched the fabric lashed around his forearm; a dark splotch stained the green silk where blood had already begun to seep through.

“You’re lucky,” Zevran interrupted.  He tightened his grip on his captive’s wrists.  “What if she hadn’t been an utter fool, I wonder?  And yet you question why I tell you never to go unarmed.”

Garth grinned.  “I don’t worry when I have you.”

Zevran only shook his head.

Ser Randall returned quickly, rope in hand and another guard in tow.  Zevran stepped aside, took up his place beside Garth, and let them work.  The guards bound the woman’s arms tightly before slapping her awake should she could be dragged off, at Fergus’s direction, to the dungeons to be questioned later.  She swore and thrashed against her escorts, and when she passed Garth, she spat.  Saliva spattered his face; he did not flinch.

And then she was gone.  The doors closed on shrieks with a dull thunk.

 

Garth moved first, to swipe at his face with heel of his hand.  He considered his would-be Wardens with the same strange expression Zevran knew and did not know (sadness, he thought, but not quite.  Did they see it too?).  “I think,” Garth said as he wiped the spittle on his pants, “that means we are done for now.  Address any pressing concerns with Zevran.  Otherwise, we will continue this tomorrow.”  A murmur of assent followed.  As he made to leave, Garth paused and caught Zevran’s eye; a moment passed, no more than a heartbeat, where Garth seemed he might say something.  He did not, and pulled away without a word.  He left with Fergus.

No one spoke when Zevran turned his full attention to his new charges.  _Commander_, Garth had said.  Zevran liked the word; for now, he would not question it. 

He couldn’t stop the smirk that split across his face.

\--

Zevran checked the chapel first when he woke that night to discover he was alone in bed.  Garth sat cross-legged before the altar; the glow of holy candle light—the only light in the pitch of night—washed over him.  Games seemed inappropriate now.  Zevran sat down beside Garth without ceremony.

“Praying again?” Zevran asked.

“Thinking.” Garth’s hand found Zevran’s hair.  He twirled the soft strands around his fingers, watched the way the light caught the different shades of gold.  “That woman, today…her name is Winifred Tucker.  Her brother would have been a Grey Warden if he hadn’t died during the Joining.”

“Her brother and many others.” Zevran allowed it, even closed his eyes when Garth pressed his nose against his neck.

After a spell that felt longer than it was Garth tilted his head enough to brush his lips against the shell of Zevran’s ear.  “I would prefer to leave for Amaranthine by the end of the week.”

“So soon?  And with such embarrassments?” Zevran turned so the tip of his nose brushed Garth’s.  He grinned.  “You saw them.  You humans are far too soft, you know this?”

A chuckle rumbled through Garth, even as the sadness-but-not settled in his eyes.  “They’ll learn.  I did.  And I think they’ll learn even faster with you to teach them.” Garth nipped at Zevran’s lips; he watched him from under hooded eyes.  “After all, I did.”

“Mi amore, that sounds like blasphemy.”

“So it does.”

Zevran kissed Garth, almost chastely at first, deepening as Garth lay back and pulled Zevran on top of him.  There were questions to be asked, answers that would never be given—Zevran did not press for any of them now.  Now, he reveled in firm chests and strong hands; he asked questions with lips and tongue and found answers quiet in grunts and muffled gasps.  He hoped, if only till the morn, Garth could do the same.


End file.
